


Twist the Knife

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being kidnapped and tortured to the point of blacking out, John awakes to find himself bound to an unconscious man.  Now he must help them both survive in order to escape a mad man from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist the Knife

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for Twist the Knife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073645) by [Justgot1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1). 



> Twist the knife: To deliberately do or say something to worsen a difficult situation or increase a person's distress, irritation, or anger.

When John awoke, the first thing he noticed, beyond the pain he’d grown used to over the last week, was the air.  It was different than the air in the windowless cell in which he’d been held.  It hung heavy, stale, and tasted the way mildew smells, but it was by far fresher than what he’d become acclimated to.  And there was a very miniscule draft.  One that would have gone unnoticed to anyone who hadn’t spent the the past week in a room with no air current whatsoever.  He hadn’t smelled anything beyond a refuse bucket, vomit, and whatever that vile stuff they called food was since he’d been abducted.  The tiny air current brought with it the smell of London and hope.

 

He estimated it had been a week since he’d felt the needle jabbed into his neck which caused him to black out.  Upon waking up, he found himself in his “cell”. He had no real way of telling time.  He’d just counted the number of meals he’d been brought, two a day it seemed.  At first he’d yelled, banging on the small door, trying to get someone to hear him, but he quickly figured out it was a waste of time and energy.  When left alone, all he had been able to hear was a faint, but distant rumble, a slow drip of water, and the occasional footsteps that he’d grown to recognize as belonging to his abductors.  He was no Holmes brother, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out he must be underground somewhere.  

 

The men who had kidnapped him didn’t appear to actually want anything from him. The only goal his captors seemed to have was to beat him to the point of heaving up those meager meals.  He soon realized they were trying to wear him down, waiting for something or someone.  When John figured this out, he fell back on his training as a soldier.  He mentally steeled himself, did his best to give them no satisfactory reaction, showed no anger; stoic and defiant against the odds.  

 

Only once had he asked “Why?”  The grin his guard gave him sent chills down his spine.

 

“Oh, it’s for someone else’s benefit,” the man answered before he kneed John in the gut, causing him to collapse, dry heaving.  John had assumed it was for Mycroft’s benefit, based on his past association with the elder Holmes brother.  Probably trying to use John as a way to make Mycroft feel guilty or something.  They obviously didn’t know Mycroft very well if that was the case.

 

“He hasn’t spoken to me in over a year.  He could care less,” John answered between heaves and gasps, clutching his stomach.

“Oh, we both know that’s not quite true,” the dark eyed man said between punches, leaving John even more confused and fighting not to cry out in pain.

 

Now, for the first time since his kidnapping, he was out of his cell.  He blinked his eyes at the light bouncing off the walls of the tunnel.  The light was bright enough that he could make out the curved walls, brown with age, rusting iron supports, and shadowed openings further down the corridor of the tunnel.  Scattered haphazardly along the floor were forgotten iron bars that looked like they had belonged to shelves or old beds.  It was hard to tell.  There was a faint dripping of water far off and he thought he could make out the distant rumble he’d heard on occasion during his captivity, except closer now.  His arms ached and he realized they were tied behind him to the chair he was sitting on. He stretched his fingers out, testing the circulation when he touched...fingers.  Shit!  There was another person behind him!  What was a bad situation had just gotten worse.  John knew he could probably get himself out of the knots that bound him, but now there was another person to be concerned about.  John tried to turn his head to see who was bound behind him, but with his arms tied all he could see was a body hunched over, apparently unconscious.  

  
“Oi!” He hissed under his breath trying to get the person’s attention.  He poked at the hands behind him with his fingers, only to receive no response.  He rocked the chair, jolting them both hard.  The figure behind him groaned, distinctly male, as he began to regain consciousness.

  
“You okay, mate?” John asked, keeping his voice low.

  
The man groaned again, “John?”

  
John froze in shock.  His name on those lips.  It was the last word he’d ever heard Sherlock say.  And he’d never expected to hear that voice utter his name again.  Hearing it here, now, was worse than any punch or kick he’d received since he’d ended up in this godforsaken place.  John had seen him jump, had attended his funeral, and now he was here, very much alive.  The life John had been living for over a year, a life of mourning, had been a lie.  His vision blurred around the edges, a combination of disbelief and fury brewing in his chest until he finally remembered to breathe.

  
“Sherlock?  Is that really you?” His voice came out harsh and confused.  “You fucking bastard!  How the hell are you alive?  I watched you jump, I heard the crack when your body hit the sidewalk!  You’re alive and you didn’t have the decency to tell me?  Why?  You bastard.  I thought I was your friend.”

  
Behind him he could feel Sherlock shaking his head loosely, mumbling to himself in a low moan, “Oh God, no. No. Not John.  Just another hallucination.  You won’t break me.  Pump me full of drugs, beat me, break every bone in my body, do whatever horrible thing your perverted mind can come up with, but I won’t let you have him.”  He seemed to be talking to an unseen person, shaking his head in denial.  “Not John.  Not my John.”  Sherlock’s voice cracked, “Can’t be my John.”

  
“My John”  That’s what broke John.  Those two words.  Sherlock had once told John that he didn’t have friends, that John was his only one.  And apparently, he had been more than just Sherlock’s friend.  John hung his head, his captor’s words now making sense.  He was Sherlock’s bait.  He was Sherlock’s weak spot, Sherlock’s “heart”.  Jim Moriarty had realized it and apparently so had someone else.  He’d figure out how and why Sherlock wasn’t dead later.  First he had to get them out of here alive.    

 

John took a deep breath.  Inhale, exhale.  Inhale, exhale.  And when he was calm he tried again.

  
“Sherlock.  It’s really me.  It’s John.  I am not a figment of your imagination.”  More mumbling from Sherlock who was trying to rock in the chair.  Sherlock had mentioned drugs and John realized that Sherlock was either crashing or going through withdrawal.  Fucking hell!  John was going to kill whoever had jabbed that needle in Sherlock’s unwilling arm.

  
“Dammit, Sherlock,” John said more forcefully, “Stop rocking the chairs.  I can’t get us out of this if you keep moving.”  

  
Sherlock paused.  “John?” he asked slightly more coherently.

  
John sighed and shifted his arms, fingers grazing over the knots in the rope trying to figure out what they looked like by feel.  “Yes, Sherlock it’s really me, now be still and let me concentrate.”

  
“Oh John, no.”  Sherlock’s voice cracked on his name.  “I’m so sorry you-you weren’t supposed-I did it to...Nononono...” Sherlock actually sobbed.

  
John stopped him before he could continue.  “I’m alright, Sherlock.  A little battered and bruised but I’ll live.  You can tell me what the hell you’re doing alive after this is over. And you know, I will damn well hold you to that.  But right now I have to figure out how to get us out of this.” John paused contemplating his next move. “Now, I know it’ll be uncomfortable but I need you to push your arms back further and let me feel the ropes around your wrist.”

  
“John, he’s going to kill us.  You have to know that.  Just let me tell you-” Sherlock tried again.

  
“ _Sherlock_!” John hissed at him.  “No one is going to kill us.  I won’t let them.  Now do what I said or so help me I will kill you when all this is over.”

  
John felt Sherlock chuckle before he maneuvered his wrists into John’s outstretched fingers. “Really, John?  You find out I’m alive and then you threaten to kill me.  You do realize the irony in that?”

  
John grinned, “Now there’s the Sherlock I know.  And no, the irony wasn’t lost on me.”  He felt along the lines of the rope tied expertly around Sherlock’s wrists.  “Bloody hell, two different people must have tied our wrists.  At least the one who did mine was an idiot.”  John whispered the last part.  Their earlier words had been loud enough to bounce off the curved walls of the tunnel, echoing back at them.  

 

“The world is full of idiots.  Just what are you planning back there?” Sherlock asked, also whispering.

 

“Well,” John winced as he pulled one arm up slightly, bending at the elbow, enabling his fingers to start working at the ends of the rope tying his knot, “You may be the great Sherlock Holmes, but there are some things about John Watson that even you apparently never figured out.”  He grunted as he managed to loosen his knot a bit and pull the rope through the first loop.  “I happen to be an expert at untying knots.”

 

“I didn’t realize there were levels of knot untying expertise,” Sherlock continued to whisper, but John heard the smile in his voice.

  
“I’ll have to tell you how I gained my expertise sometime,” John continued in a hushed voice, and slipped the loose the next part of rope that bound his hands.  “For now, tell me what you know about the people who’ve been holding us hostage while I get these ropes undone.”

  
“We’re not being held hostage,” Sherlock sounded defeated, “He means to kill us when all is said and done.  And he’ll do it in person because he’s a sadistic bastard and wants us to see his smile while he does.”

  
“Who?” John asked, as he slipped his hands free and quickly loosened the ropes that tied him to the chair, before turning to start trying to untie the complicated knot that bound Sherlock’s wrists.

  
“Moriarty’s second in command and the sniper that was trained on you that day outside Bart’s,” Sherlock turned his head slightly and John could see the bruises on his face, cuts still bleeding that should have been stitched.  He was sure his own face didn’t look much better.  Then John’s fingers stilled as Sherlock’s words sunk in and part of the puzzle fell into place. Someone had meant to kill him the day Sherlock jumped off the roof but they didn’t because…

  
“Sherlock, did you jump to keep me from being shot?”

  
“Obviously,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave John a small smile as if to say _not really but you know that._  John returned the smile and tugged at the knot again.

  
“What else?” John asked as he continued to work.

  
“He’s confident, cocky, doesn’t think he can possibly fail.  He only has one other person that I’ve seen or heard helping him.  If it weren’t for you, he probably wouldn’t even have need of an ‘assistant’.” Sherlock grimaced as the rope pinched him where John pulled to loosen the final knot.

  
“I’ve only had the pleasure of meeting one man, but I’ve heard two sets different sets of footsteps,” John said pulling the rope through the last knot, freeing Sherlock’s hands.  He noticed the proud look in Sherlock’s eyes as Sherlock rubbed his wrists. “A soldier never forgets what military footsteps sound like. The other man is military trained, but I guess you already knew that, sniper and all.  My ‘friend’ is most likely a mercenary but has no military background that I can tell.”  

  
“Brilliant,” was all Sherlock said as John loosened the ropes that bound him to his chair.  He felt himself blush a bit at Sherlock using one of his words of praise on him.  He opened his mouth to reply, but Sherlock’s face had changed, a hard mask in place of the openness of before.

 

“Fix the ropes to make it look like we’re still bound.  I hear footsteps and we don’t have time to ambush him,” Sherlock whispered even more quietly than before.  Following Sherlock’s lead was like second nature to John and he quickly fixed the ropes, but John knew Sherlock was still recovering from the drugs and he could tell Sherlock’s beatings had been worse than his.  Sherlock’s brain may be working again, but his body would be slower.  It would still be up to John to get them out of there alive.

  
The footsteps grew loud enough for John to hear them now, the military stride evident in each echoing beat.  A tall form stepped out from one of the side tunnels but was still in shadow.  John squinted to see him, leaning a bit to make it seem like he was still tied tight to the chair.

  
“Well isn’t this cozy?” the man asked almost gleefully.  It took John little more than a second to recognize the voice.  It was one from his army days.  One of the very few men he’d not wanted to treat, but did anyway.  Sherlock had used the word “sadistic” in reference to him.  John had witnessed the twisted mind first hand.  The joy he took in tormenting the enemies they’d captured, how sometimes Moran would intentionally wound someone to cause them more pain before finally “putting them out of their misery.”  It had turned John’s stomach that anyone could take such perverse glee in shooting a human being. John had gone to their superiors and been one of the people who had recommended he not be allowed to serve anymore.  But the man’s skill with a rifle and willingness to do some of the more unspeakable tasks had caused his superiors to turn a blind eye to what John and many of the other soldiers saw in the man.   Oh, he would have no problem putting a bullet in his head, John thought to himself.

  
“Hello Colonel,” John sneered, “fancy meeting you here.”  He felt Sherlock’s head whip around in what John could only assume to be disbelief.  How had Sherlock not known of John’s previous experience with the blonde man walking smugly towards them?  Another question for later.

  
“Ah, so nice of you to remember me, Captain. I try to be the sort of man who is remembered.   Of course,” the man John recognized as Colonel Sebastian Moran continued, “I had also hoped to put a bullet in your brain that day your friend there jumped, but I never did have an itchy trigger finger and I didn’t want to upset the Boss.  I didn’t find out until much later that Boss had shot himself up there on that roof, or I would have gone through with taking the shot.”  Moran’s voice had turned to stone by the end.

  
“Boss?” John spoke, a bit confused as Moran advanced.

  
“Moriarty”  “Jim”  Sherlock and Moran said at the same time.

 

Moran advanced quickly on them and backhanded Sherlock hard across the face. John flinched at the sound.  “Don’t you say his name!” he shouted. “Don’t you even think of speaking.  This is a conversation between myself and the good doctor.  It’s been a long time coming.”  Moran’s voice grew progressively harder as he paced around them.  “And when it’s over, then you can speak, one last chance to say goodbye and all.  I am merciful that way.  It’s a fault, I know.  But, I can at least give you that one thing you couldn’t give Jim and me.  So prepare to say your goodbye, boys.”  

  
When Moran had appeared, John had felt Sherlock grab his hand from behind, squeezing hard, an unspoken command of “wait”.  He’d held fast through being hit and Moran’s rant.  But as the last word fell from Moran’s lips, Sherlock let go and John was very glad he’d kept the ropes loose.  He and Sherlock sprang into action as one.  

  
Sherlock swept out quickly with his leg, knocking Moran to the ground, and began to wriggle out of his ropes.  John, being less constrained, leapt up and grabbed one of the iron bars from the piles that were close by.   Moran rose to his knees, shaking his head, a string of curses flying from his mouth.  Sherlock struggled, still trying to get free from the chair.  Moran pulled a gun and aimed it at Sherlock’s head.  Sherlock froze and John’s world slowed down.  He had just got Sherlock back and he wasn’t about to lose him again.  Moran might be a sniper, but John was a fighter.  He threw the iron bar praying to a god he’d scarcely let himself believe in lately and rejoiced as it hit his mark, knocking the gun out of Moran’s hand.  John grabbed a second piece of iron and launched himself at Moran, shoving Sherlock and his chair out of the way, as the other soldier started to pull his reserve weapon from his shoulder holster.  John swung with all his might, making contact before the other gun left it’s holster, grimly satisfied at the crunch of the other man’s skull as the vibration of the connection reverberated up the iron to his hands.

  
John knelt down, moving Moran’s hand from the gun in its holster and checked his pulse.  Finding none, he removed the gun, rummaged around in Moran’s pockets for the mobile he knew must be on the man, and jammed it in his pocket when he found it.  John checked to make sure the safety was on and shoved the gun  in his waistband at his back.  Then he rose and went to help Sherlock.  He had managed to extricate himself from the ropes and chair and was trying to locate the gun John had knocked out of Moran’s hand.  John walked over to Sherlock and pulled him up.  He saw Sherlock wince and John wasn’t sure if it was from pain or from the fact that Sherlock knew he was still somewhat furious with him.  Ignoring the wounds that they both had, John pulled Sherlock into a quick hug, reassuring him.  “I’m still pissed at you, but I’d rather be pissed at you being alive, than mourning a dead man,” John said into Sherlock’s shoulder.  He felt Sherlock relax into the hug.  John let it linger a moment longer than necessary before pulling away.

  
“Come on,” he said, looking around and locating the second gun behind another pile of debris, “We need to get out of here before the other guy finds us.”  John paused, looking around, “Uh, do you have any idea where ‘here’ is?”

  
Sherlock grinned, “Glad to see you’re not completely taking over my area, John.  Though it should have been obvious to you where we are.  Look around,” Sherlock waved his hand in his trademark flourish, “Abandoned tunnels, old iron beds, the distant rumble of a train, even the actual signs,” he pointed to a rust coated and faint sign that said “toilet”, “should tell you we’re in one of the forgotten tunnels of Clapham North Air Raid Shelter.”

  
John rolled his eyes.  “I was a soldier and doctor, not a history buff, Sherlock.  How do we get out?”

  
“I’d say head for the old lift, just follow the draft.  I know you can feel and smell it too.” Sherlock took the gun John held out for him.

  
“Well, let’s go then,” John drew his gun and followed the small air current down the dark tunnels, pausing occasionally to figure out which direction the current was stronger.  Sherlock let him lead, keeping a close eye on the shadows.  Neither man spoke, both understanding the need for stealth, but the unasked questions lingered heavy between them.  John thought he knew the “why” behind Sherlock’s leap now, but how had he survived?  Why hadn’t Sherlock told him he was alive?  Why didn’t he ask for help?  Who else knew?  Were there other people he had to be concerned with? How bad were Sherlock’s injuries that he wasn’t letting John see?  And, the one that kept pushing itself to the front of John’s thoughts, how deep did Sherlock’s feelings for him go?  John had long ago dealt with his own feelings for Sherlock after his “death”, he’d accepted them and tried to move on.  Now, he felt them trying to resurface, those thoughts of what more time “with” Sherlock would be like bubbling to the surface, the little voice in his head telling him it was past time to stop denying how he felt.  He pushed those thoughts aside to be dealt with later.  Get them out alive.  That was his first priority.  He could deal with everything else later.

  
Finally, John rounded a corner to see the old lift Sherlock had mentioned, a faint green and red at the far end of the tunnel.  “HA!” John exclaimed, turning his head to give Sherlock one of his cheeky smiles.  Sherlock smiled back at him, but a look of horror quickly replaced the smile and he rushed at John, shoving him violently to the side.  The crack of a gunshot rang out and John felt blood spray on his face as he watched Sherlock fall.  John reacted instinctively, pulling the gun, turning and firing at the man further down the corridor.  He watched the man crumple to the floor, a gaping wound in his chest.  John scrambled over to where Sherlock was clutching his shoulder.

  
It took John longer than it should have to go into “doctor” mode.  There was Sherlock, who he had just learned was alive not so very long ago, lying on the cold cement of the tunnel, bleeding profusely, possibly dying.  John steeled himself against that idea and in true Watson stubbornness, set about to prevent that from happening.  He pulled off his jumper and ripped it in half, making two large bandages.

  
“John, I-” Sherlock started, but John shushed him pushed one of the bandages into Sherlock’s hand and the other under his shoulder at the exit wound.  He pressed firmly on the hand Sherlock had on his wounded shoulder, applying more pressure to the wound.

  
“I need to call Mycroft and you need to not talk while I do it.  Don’t move,” John said sternly.  He punched in Mycroft’s old number with his free hand in the mobile he’d lifted off Moran’s body.  An unfamiliar female voice answered.  John gave her the old code Mycroft had assigned him in case of an emergency, informed her that Sherlock had been shot, and then gave their location to the best of his abilities.  Thank God the lift was in sight so he had a landmark to use.  He hung up and shoved the mobile back in his pocket before he looked down.  Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered.

  
“Sherlock!” John shouted at him, and Sherlock’s eyes shot open, locking his quicksilver eyes with John’s deep indigo ones.  “I need you to stay with me, okay?  Keep your hand here and hold it down, I’m going to go grab that bastard’s coat since he doesn’t need it anymore.  Talk to me and don’t stop until I get back,” John commanded.  Sherlock nodded and John rose, rushing down the tunnel while Sherlock talked.

  
“John, you should know, I did it for you, to protect you, I didn’t want to but he didn’t give me a choice,” Sherlock spoke quickly, his voice weak but he was talking and conscious as John gathered up the coat and headed back down the tunnel, “John, get back here, I need to tell you something.”  Even in this state Sherlock was demanding and it brought a somber smile to the corner of John’s mouth.  He covered Sherlock with the coat attempting to prevent shock, and added his hand on top of Sherlock’s trying hard to keep the blood from leaving Sherlock’s body.  

  
“You’re going to be fine,” John tried to reassure him, “Remember, I got shot in the shoulder too?  We’ll have matching scars.”  Sherlock almost grimaced at the bad attempt at humor, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

  
“Don’t try to placate me,” Sherlock said, a painful tone in his voice, “We both know this is not good. We don’t know how quickly Mycroft’s men will find us and I’m losing blood fast.”  John squeezed Sherlock’s hand.  Sherlock continued, “The first day we met, I asked you what your last words would be if you were dying.  Do you remember?”  

  
John swallowed hard and nodded.  “ _Please, God, let me live._ ”

  
“I understand now,” Sherlock shivered violently, the coat not keeping him near warm enough, “I apologize for mocking you, I should have said sorry that day.  You knew what this was like, what it was like to see the end and know you could have accomplished so much more.  I’m not talking about cases or the work, John. I would do everything that’s led up to this point again to keep you safe, to know that you were alive.  Do you understand?”

  
John shook his head, Sherlock was rambling, but there was an urgency in his voice.  “Keep talking, tell me, Sherlock.”  He needed to keep Sherlock awake, keep shock at bay as long as possible.

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, scaring him a moment before John realized it was just a reaction to him not comprehending Sherlock’s words.  “John, I want more time.  I want more time to lull you back to sleep after a nightmare with the violin like I used to.  I want more time to actually eat with you.  I want to make you tea and pick up the milk, to forget about the experiments and have you nag me about them.  I want to run through London again, knowing you’ve got my back, that you won’t let anything happen to me.  And I want you to know I have done and will always do the same for you.”  Sherlock closed his eyes, tears slipping out.  “I’m sorry I never told you how important you were, how much you meant to me before now.  I’m sorry I never told you I was alive.  Mycroft will fill you in when he finds us, he will answer all your questions, so I won’t waste my time.  I wanted you to know...know how I felt.  That is more important.  I don’t know if you will want to do any of those things I mentioned, but please, don’t leave.  I need you.”  Sherlock exhaled with a shudder and went still, his hand going slack under John’s.

  
“Sherlock!”  John shouted at him.  The man stayed still and quiet beneath him.  John quickly took his pulse.  It was faint but there.  “Come on, Sherlock, wake up!”  John slapped at his cheek.  No response.  There was a clatter at the end of the tunnel and a shout.

  
“Doctor Watson!”  

  
John saw a team of men at the end of the tunnel.  “Down here!” he yelled.  He was rushed by men in tactical gear followed by a specialized medical team and they quickly cleared the area before putting Sherlock onto a scoop stretcher.  John hurried alongside them, keeping pressure on the wound as they made their way out of the tunnels.  When Sherlock’s heart stopped, John performed CPR until they made him step back and hit Sherlock with the portable defib machine.  His heart started but they didn’t have much time to get him to the hospital.  They rushed him to King’s and John was left in the bright lights of the A&E receiving area as Sherlock was taken to emergency surgery.  

  
“Sir?”  The nurse grabbed his wrist as he trudged his way towards the waiting area.  John had never felt so tired and he just wanted to sit and wait for news on Sherlock.  He turned to tell her he just wanted to be left alone and he saw her eyes go wide.  It wasn’t until then he realized how he must look.  Sherlock’s blood on his face, the bruises underneath the blood, ripped and dirty clothes, cuts on various other parts of his body.  He sighed and grimaced, the adrenaline slowly wearing off.

  
“Sir, you should see a doctor as well,” the nurse said recovering her professional demeanor.

  
“Yeah,” John agreed grudgingly, “Please keep me posted on my friend’s condition, alright?”

  
She looked at him sympathetically, “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re not family.  Let’s get you taken care of.”  

  
John shook his head.  Of course he knew the protocol, but being on the other side of the fence stung.  He just hoped Mycroft wouldn’t forget him in all the chaos.

 

 

* * *

 

John felt very exposed, sitting in a hospital gown and not much else. The doctor had come in, stitched what was necessary, cleaned the other wounds, checked for concussion, and after an ultrasound, determined he didn’t have any internal bleeding.  He’d asked permission to do a quick wash up and had been granted that luxury.  Now he sat waiting, alone with his thoughts, but not ready to confront them.  First, he wanted to know what was going on with Sherlock.  Unfortunately, no one would tell him.  He had to wait on Mycroft.  John sighed and hung his head.  There was no telling when the elder Holmes would show up.  The curtain separating him from the rest of the patients clicked back and he looked up to see the very man he’d been waiting on.

  
“It took you long enough,” John said, frustrated, “How is Sherlock?  Is he awake?  What’s going on?  No one will tell me anything.”

  
“My apologies, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said coolly, “I had informed the hospital that you were to have full access to my brother and be kept informed of his condition, as well as given your own room to recover, but it seems my instructions were...lost.  Here.”  He handed John a bag.  “Put these on and join me in the hall once you’re dressed.”

  
John looked in the bag to find several sets of clothes, all in his tastes but better quality than anything he’d ever owned.  Trust Mycroft not to buy the cheap stuff.  John pulled on the fresh pair of pants, jeans, and the most comfortable t-shirt and jumper he’d ever worn.  After everything he’d been through, he wasn’t going to turn down comfort.  He joined Mycroft in the hall.

  
“This way,” Mycroft said simply, and began to walk.  John followed.

  
“How is Sherlock?  Is he awake?”  The most important two questions needed to be answered first.

  
“He is stable, but still unconscious.  There is a bed in his room for you, should he not wake up before you need to sleep.  I’ve set guards in the wing, but if the last information I received from him before his and your abductions is to be believed, there is no longer a cause for concern.  Moran and his lackey were the last two on his list,” Mycroft opened the door leading to a more private area of the hospital.

 

“My God!” John said, astounded, “There were others? How many?  How could you send your brother off alone knowing that there were other people out to kill him?  You always said you had his best interests at heart.  Fuck that.  Some big brother you turned out to be.”  John spat the last words out in disgust.  Mycroft whirled around, a look of fury on his face.

  
“Doctor, I am in no mood to put up with your assumptions.  The only reason you are standing here, alive, is because my brother cared enough to die for you.  Here,” he shoved a thick envelope into John’s hands, “This is the file on everything my brother has gone through to protect you and those he cared about.  Read it.  It will answer most of your questions.  Know that everything in there is because he cared enough to deceive you.  Imagine him alone without his friend and know that he couldn’t tell you because if he did, you would be dead.  And when you’re done, I hope you can find it in your heart to let go some of that anger you have for him, because he does not deserve it.  He has punished himself enough, he does not need your anger on top of it all.”  Mycroft’s eyes were stormy, his voice filled with disdain.  “His room is at the end of the hall.  The nurses and doctors are to tell you everything about his condition.  I will be in touch.”  John watched as the man collected himself and put his masks back into place before walking out of the hospital wing as if nothing had happened.

 

John walked into Sherlock’s room.  He whispered a quick hello in Sherlock’s ear before reading the charts and machines.  Sherlock was stable, but still not out of the danger zone.  He was being kept under in order to monitor and allow his body to continue to heal without the physical exertion of being awake.  And, knowing Sherlock, thought John, it’s for the best to keep him still and not bored.

  
John pulled up a chair next to Sherlock’s bed, gave his hand a quick squeeze, and sat down to read the file.

  
Several hours later, John leaned forward with his arms braced on his knees, his head in his hands.  The file had not been an easy thing to read.  John had taken several breaks, paced the room, and done his best not to yell at the man lying in the bed.  Mycroft’s words about his anger came back to him each time and he’d rein it in before going back to the file and continuing.  

  
Sherlock had crisscrossed the globe, crumbled entire criminal organizations, hunted down and killed the snipers assigned to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, all while trying to find Moran.  Apparently Sherlock had been so eager to find him and end this self-appointed mission that he’d rushed back to London on a tip and straight into a trap.  Mycroft had made sure that the informant who had given Sherlock the name and location had been taken care of.

 

John wondered for a moment why Sherlock had felt he needed to do this, why he’d thought he had to do it alone.  But this was Sherlock.  Sherlock who rushed headlong into everything.  Barrelled down and over anything in his way.  Sherlock who never did anything by halves, with whom it was all or nothing.  And if anyone could take down Moriarty’s web, it was Sherlock.  Moriarty who had killed himself to prevent Sherlock from having a fail safe.  Moriarty who had set those snipers on himself, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.  Moriarty was the cause of all of this, he was the one to blame, not Sherlock.  If he hadn’t killed himself, John would have gladly done it for him.

  
John sat up, rubbing his eyes, and sighed heavily.  Now what?  He couldn’t be angry at Sherlock.  Not anymore, not after everything he’d done.  It had been stupid and idiotic to go at it alone, but John was doing his best to understand that Sherlock thought he’d had no choice.  Maybe he hadn’t, maybe Mycroft had been right, but they would never know because that wasn’t the choice that had been made.  And, if he was honest with himself, John had begun letting go of the anger in the tunnel.  There had been so much going on, it was hard to hold onto that initial wave of anger he’d felt when he’d heard his name fall from Sherlock’s lips again.  Sherlock was still going to have to apologize though.

  
John’s thoughts turned back to everything that had happened in the tunnel.  Most importantly, Sherlock’s words at hearing John’s voice and then his confession after being shot, and for the first time in over a year, John let those emotions he’d pushed aside start to surface again.  He replayed those scenes over and over again in his head.  Those were as close to declarations of love that Sherlock might ever utter.  John had realized not long after Sherlock’s “death” that his feelings for his flatmate had gone deeper than just friendship.  He’d realized how much he’d needed his insane flatmate.  That Sherlock had balanced him.  How he had helped make John, who was already a good man, a better man.  

  
There were people who would argue that point, but they didn’t know John.  They didn’t understand he needed that element of excitement that was essentially Sherlock.  They didn’t know how it felt to be the one person that such an incredible man trusted beyond anyone else.  They didn’t realize how that made John feel, like he should always strive to be his best because he couldn’t bear to disappoint the incredible being that was Sherlock Holmes.  Only a few people knew that a part of John Watson had died the day Sherlock Holmes had leapt off that roof.  Now, that part that had withered and died, slowly began to emerge, ready to begin their life anew.  He’d be damned if he let that part die again.

 

And when Sherlock began to stir, John laced his fingers through Sherlock’s and waited for him to wake up completely before saying with a smile, “I’m not going anywhere, but the next time you decide to take off for parts unknown, you’re taking me with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks go out to my beta, Justgot1 (who was also my Mini Big Bang partner) and my doc sitter, KrisKenshin. Without their help, encouragement, and cheering me on, this fic would not be as good as it is. Thank you both so much!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Twist the Knife](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073645) by [Justgot1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justgot1/pseuds/Justgot1)




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